


The Ripples They Cause

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Nagini eats someone, POV Draco Malfoy, Self-Denial, Self-Hatred, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25406890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: As Draco's mind tries to process his next move, the air ripples around his wrist, and he freezes.It's a subtle thing, as gentle and forgettable as an errant breeze. But it's one he's never felt before, a breath against his pulse, a fleeting touch from a stranger, the weight of eyes on his skin. All of those soft, tender, almost-not-there sensations, centered on the series of three numbers scrawled across his skin.Everyone is born with a date on their wrist, the date of their soulmate’s death.On Draco Malfoy’s wrist, it's 02.05.1998
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 56
Kudos: 804





	The Ripples They Cause

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lostandmessedup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostandmessedup/gifts).



Draco had always been a perceptive person. When Draco was a child, his mother would find him in the garden, staring into the depths of the hedges at seemingly nothing. But as she approached, he would point into the shadows, and she'd finally see the glint of faery wings or the scurrying brown-white flash of a chipmunk, hidden and unnoticed until Draco found them sheltered in the tangled branches.

He honed the skill at his father's side during interminable dinner after interminable dinner, the people gathered around their table as ornate as the chandelier and the place settings strewn across the linen tablecloth. The subtle slide of hands on silver, the rustle of their heavy clothes against the brocade of the chairs, their murmured whispers spread through the air like motes of dust. It all served as signals of their intent. It was a secret language, barely spoken, that he was fluent in by fourteen.

He should have learned it sooner, or better, if only to prepare himself for what that secret language whispered to him eventually, a message he should have heard long before then.

* * *

He hears his father slip out of the tent in the middle of the night. It's unsurprising, at least at first. Lucius has always slept poorly, wandering the halls of Malfoy Manor in the hours long past sunset. Draco's used to the tread of his footsteps on the floorboards, the way they creak just so when his father pauses outside of Draco's door for a hesitant moment before moving on.

He thinks this is another of those late night wanderings, his father needing the space and sharp night air to clear his mind. But then the screaming starts and there's flashing light, and Draco gets out of bed with a quiet sigh. He puts on a white shirt and dark trousers, then leaves the tent as quietly as his father had, his mother still somehow asleep inside.

Outside, it's quickly devolving into chaos. Draco isn't entirely sure _why_ , but there are people screaming, and when there's another bright flash of light, he can make out bodies flying in the air, and robed and cowled figures on the ground beneath them. There's something familiar about the curve of those shoulders, the line of their arms and outstretched wands. Draco hurries into the crowd and the recognition that's trying to force its way into his mind. He knows what's happening, but considering his father's absence and the growing screams, he doesn't want to acknowledge it, not in the open where others can see.

No one's had the sense to cast a _Lumos_ , but there's just enough moonlight to make out gaps in the panicking crowd. The woods along the edge of the campsite are relatively unoccupied. The wizards and witches who have fled the campground are already through the thick underbrush, and following in their footsteps, Draco makes his way there. As he draws closer, he hears a familiar shout of pain.

Even in the darkness, it sounds ginger. Weasley. Of course.

Granger's high voice breaks through the din, and then light bursts from the end of a wand. It's like a beacon to the three of them, and as Draco's mind tries to process his next move, the air ripples around his wrist, and he freezes.

It's a subtle thing, as gentle and forgettable as an errant breeze. But it's one he's never felt before, a breath against his pulse, a fleeting touch from a stranger, the weight of eyes on his skin. All of those soft, tender, almost-not-there sensations, centered on the series of three numbers scrawled across his skin.

He's looking at Potter when he feels it, and much like the realization that his father is torturing Muggles in the middle of a crowded Wizarding campground, Draco refuses to acknowledge this bright spark of knowledge ripping through him.

Instead, he does what he's always done when faced with the trio. He makes fun of Weasley, taunts Granger's parentage, sneers at Potter. They don't seem to notice anything different, playing their own parts in the familiar back and forth as if they'd practiced the lines.

But Draco also tells them to hide Granger, to stay out of sight, to keep their heads down.

The date on his wrist isn't today, but he rubs his thumb over top of it as he watches them disappear into the darkness. He goes to find his father and tries to ignore the way the numbers feel different than they had that morning, before he knew.

* * *

For as long as the written word has existed, there have been records of soulmates. Some of the earliest stories are about them, usually tragic since the defining mark each person carries on their dominant wrist represents the date of their soulmate's death. Day, month, year, and nothing else. There are an unlucky few who are born with a date that precedes their birth, but most dates are far into the future, a tantalizing hint of what-if and a painful reminder of time running out.

Draco's always thought it was a bit macabre, that each person was burdened with the date of their soulmate's death. If Fate or Destiny decided to share some hint of a happily-ever-after, one would think it would pick something a bit more upbeat. A birthday, maybe, or the day you met. Maybe an important life moment, such as a wedding or celebration, or the first words spoken to each other. But, no, it's death that guides someone to their other half, and there's nothing to be done about it.

He's thankful that the date can be hidden. It's a bit of simple magic that anyone can cast from an early age, a mindful touch against the numbers that makes the charcoal dark stain turn the color of skin. He's never seen his mother or father's dates, and he can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse to not know. They'd always said they were soulmates, that they'd known as soon as they'd looked at each other, so he's not afraid that they aren't meant to be. Draco just doesn't want to know when he'll lose them. 

As soon as he learns how to do simple arithmetic, he'd done the maths for when his soulmate would die, and he'd spent a night curled under his blankets, eyes dry but aching, as he wondered what it will be like to lose the love of his life at seventeen years old. He doesn't imagine knowing when his parents would die is something he could handle with such stoicism.

His only hope is that he'll never meet the person. There are plenty of cases like that, where neither part of the pair manages to find the other. Love isn't confined to one shape or form, and there are enough stories of two people falling in love without being soulmates that he finds some thin comfort in it. And because he doesn't like looking at the constant reminder smeared across his wrist, he keeps his date hidden, only taking it out in the middle of the night like a light to chase away monsters, a reminder that there's someone out there who might love Draco until the day they die.

* * *

The moment he steps onto the Hogwarts Express, Draco knows that he's in some twisted dream, a warped version of reality spilling out before him in train carriages and school trunks. As soon as he sees Potter, his wrist flares, and when Draco looks down at the heat—like sun-warmed skin or the too-hot tangle of blankets in summer—the date is visible, though he always keeps it hidden. He tugs on the edge of his sleeve, brushes his thumb across his racing pulse to hide it again, and proceeds to prattle on about the Triwizard Tournament because it's easier than facing the fact that Harry bloody Potter is his soulmate.

Later, when he's in his own cabin, Vince and Greg sitting across from him and arguing about the World Cup, he lets himself have a quiet panic. It starts off simple. His mind whirls with the idea that, of all the people in the world, _Potter_ is his perfect match. Fate has some fucked up idea of perfect if that's who it has chosen for him. Potter, who's so picture-perfect-good it's a surprise they haven't added his name as a synonym in the dictionary. Potter, who has fought against everything Draco's father has told him is worth keeping in the world. Potter, who wouldn't shake Draco's hand and stole his house-elf and thinks he's no better than the dirt wedged between the tread of his shoes.

But on the heels of that panic is the gut-wrenching knowledge that Draco now knows when Potter is going to die, and that they'll _both_ be seventeen when it happens. His mind whirls at the possibilities. Perhaps a fall from a broom during a Quidditch game, or some mistimed spell cast during their NEWTs practice. An improperly brewed potion or maybe something as mundane as a cold that turns into a pneumonia that no amount of Pepper-Up can cure.

Potter is going to die at the end of their seventh year at Hogwarts, and Draco's the only one who knows.

He's quietly sick in the bathroom a few minutes later, the skin covering his pulse blank and burning.

* * *

Draco knows he should stay away from Potter. He's only inviting trouble with the badges and the incessant vile prodding, but Potter's like a rotten tooth in Draco's mouth, and he can't help but worry at the ache of it until he tastes blood.

While he is as surprised as the rest of the school when Potter's name comes flying out of the Goblet, Draco doesn't fear for him during the first task. He already knows that Potter won't die, not for a few more years, and it makes it somehow easier for Draco to watch the proceedings to know that Potter will come out unscathed, though he thinks there'd be some kind of pointed irony if a dragon did eat the idiot.

But later, dragons become significantly less of a threat than Potter in dress robes. Draco has been looking forward to the Yule Ball all term, though he's kept that close to his chest. Tonight, he's all dark elegance, Pansy a pop of color on his arm. They make a striking pair, he knows, her dark hair and his light, his monochromatic poise and her brilliant hue. He should be gloating in the attention they draw, the chiaroscuro picture they paint together.

But Draco only has eyes for Potter. It's not that he looks good. His robes are barely a step above his normal day-to-day uniform. The cut is the same, and the quality of the fabric appears to be only a bit better. But the color—a deep green that makes Draco think of the sunrise filtering through the Great Lake into the Slytherin dormitory—makes his eyes stand out and his skin glow like teak polished to a high sheen. Draco's fingers curl into his hands as he fights off the sudden and unwanted desire to touch.

It's only because of the mark and the way it shifts and itches on his skin. Draco doesn't… he doesn't look at _boys_ like that. He's here with Pansy, after all, and she's beautiful, smiling up at him through her fringe, her dark eyes sparkling. She should be his sole focus, not Potter as he hugs the sides of the transformed Great Hall, awkward and devastating in green.

He spins Pansy around the room. She's as light as air in his arms, though his heart is a heavy weight in his throat as he tries to ignore Potter. Parvati Patil drags him around the Hall like a dog on a short leash, showing off Potter like he's her pet. Draco's surprised she doesn't coo at Potter and offer him a treat. She eventually leaves in a huff with Potter abandoned on the side of the room. For a short, wild moment, Draco considers walking over and taking the vacated seat, but Percy Weasley beats him to it.

"Draco." Pansy pulls on his sleeve, and he rips his eyes from Potter to look at her. She's smiling in a soft, satisfied way. "You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You are. You've been doing it all night." She looks over to Potter and raises an eyebrow. "The colour is certainly flattering on him. I can understand the appeal."

"Pansy." He hisses her name, glancing around frantically to see if anyone nearby is paying them any attention. "Shut up."

She rolls her eyes, but closes her mouth.

He spends the rest of the night studiously not looking at Potter, but that evening, when he's curled up in his four poster, moonlight seeping through the lake to leave dark green waves of light on the floor, Draco tentatively touches his wrist and stares at his mark until he falls asleep that way, wrapped up in warm blankets and with a sick feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Ludo Bagman casts a spell on his throat and shouts over the crowd. Draco's tucked himself in along the back edges, unwilling to be seen but unable to stay away.

"Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them."

Bagman starts to count down, and Draco starts walking around the gathered spectators. He's not sure what, exactly, they're going to spectate. All four of the Champions have disappeared into the murky black of the Great Lake, and while there are spectating spells that Bagman could cast to make the events more entertaining, he just stands on the shore of the lake, chatting quietly with the other officiants.

It's freezing cold out, and Draco draws his heavy robes tighter around his body. His warming charms aren't doing much to hold back the chill, and he wishes he'd brought his charmed flask with him. It keeps whatever liquid it holds at the same temperature as when it was first poured in, and hot chocolate would be a welcome relief from the cold. It'd also give him something to do with his hands, other than tighten and loosen them in his pockets while his eyes stay trained on the surface of the Lake.

He wonders what they've taken from the Champions, from Potter. Draco doesn't see the familiar mop of bushy brown hair or scarlet crimson lurking near the front of the crowd and figures either Granger or Weasley had the dubious honor of being partially drowned for everyone's amusement. The predictability of it should make him laugh, but Draco chokes down a frisson of worry instead. He knows Potter won't die today, but if he were to lose either of his best friends...

Draco's wrist heats, and he finally looks away from the placid stillness of the Lake. His robes aren't long enough to cover his wrists, but the jumper underneath is. The thick, off-white wool muffles his skin, but Draco knows that the numbers are visible again, brought to the surface of his skin by Draco's thoughts of Potter.

It's inconvenient and disquieting. Draco slides his thumb under the cuff and wipes his skin clean, as blank and empty as the surface of the lake, secrets hidden underneath.

* * *

"Hey, Potter!" His head doesn't turn as Draco shouts his name across the Great Hall. " _Potter!_ How's your head? You feeling all right? Sure you're not going to go berserk on us?"

It's idiotic, but Draco falls into familiar patterns when he's off-center. He laughs with Vince and Greg, all while wondering if Potter would have ever answered Draco's questions honestly if his tone were just a little different, if he'd said something else years ago in a robe shop, if Draco could keep his head out of his ass long enough to figure out what the hell it all means—what Potter means—and _talk_ to him.

He doesn't know how to do that, what words would make sense coming from his lips, but he wants to. Those damned numbers, that sensation of heat across his pulse point, they've made Draco's mind twisted and uneasy. But he's also so certain that he wants to learn more about the person he's supposed to love, the person he's going to lose in just a few short years, that it eats at him. Potter is becoming a raw, ragged wound in Draco's thoughts, and he doesn't know how to heal it or make it stop bleeding.

So he mocks and teases and pretends to hate, all while his gut keeps telling him that the warmth twisting there is a different emotion entirely.

* * *

It's a hedge maze. Something made of green leaves and thin branches shouldn't be so ominous. But Draco's heart is racing as he watches Diggory and Potter—always Potter—rush into the thicket and out of sight.

There's yelling and screams, the roar of magical creatures and spells. Red sparks fill the sky, and Draco's heart leaps into the air with them.

 _Potter won't die, Potter won't die, Potter won't die_. He chants it, again and again, holds the three words like a touchstone in his mind. It does nothing to lessen his sense of something about to go wrong, the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff that's about to fall out from beneath his feet.

There's a crack of a Portkey, and ground gives way beneath him, terror swallowing him like rough waves in a stormy sea.

* * *

"Very clever, Granger," he says, and he means it. But his mask is firmly in place, and with Vince and Greg behind him like smirking simulacrum, he plays the part he's written for himself. But he can't keep the fear from his mind, and it comes spilling out like so much puss.

"You've picked the losing side, Potter," he says, and the date burns on his wrist like a brand. "I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember?"

He says hateful, hate-filled things, can feel his anger and terror boiling within him, volcanic and awful. And then there's an explosion of light and he's falling back, falling unconscious, always falling, tumbling at Potter's feet and knowing that there's only three years left until they won't be there to fall at anymore.

* * *

His father lets it slip that Sirius Black is an Animagus, though Draco knows he doesn't intend to make that information known. Draco's sitting on the edges of the parlour, a book he's pretending to read propped in his lap, and his parents don't whisper as quietly as they think they do.

"A dog," Lucius says contemptuously. "Though he still has his usual dark humor, since it apparently looks like the Grim."

"He always was morbid." Narcissa shakes her head, then catches sight of Draco in the corner. "Draco, darling, what are you doing?"

He lifts the book in answer, then holds it up so that they can't see his face, as if all he cares about is the next page, the next paragraph, the next word.

Their voices are hushed, and he only makes out one or two tidbits of information.

 _Missing_ , and _aunt and uncle gone_ , and _find him eventually_.

They don't say his name, but Draco knows who they're talking about. His wrist burns with the knowledge.

* * *

There's a flash of black fur at Potter's side when Draco sees him on the platform, and the lolling tongue and too-intelligent eyes make Draco's hair stand on end. It's a foolish thing, to bring a wanted criminal to such a crowded place, filled with witches and wizards, Aurors around the corner, the whole bloody world only a mistake away from learning this secret. Draco scowls, furious with Potter's inability to think ahead.

The Prefects' carriage is surprisingly crowded, and Draco notes the conspicuous absence of Potter from the usual trio. Granger and Weasley glare at him from where they're sitting—rather close, now that Draco sees them alone together—and Draco polishes his Prefects' badge with a sniff. Pansy sidles up to him and threads her arm through his. She leans against him gently, a comforting weight against his side.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks him quietly as her fingers ghost over his wrist. He curses to himself as he rubs his thumb over the numbers, turning them the same shade as his skin.

"No." It's terse, but there's no heat to the word. Pansy shrugs, her shoulder butting up against his, and doesn't ask again.

They're eventually released after a professor that Draco doesn't recognize gives them a long-winded speech about their responsibilities and the honor that comes with the badge, and rather a lot of nonsense that he doesn't want to be bothered with right now, not with Granger and Weasley glaring daggers at him from their corner of the carriage and Draco's wrist hot and achy, the numbers refusing to stay hidden for more than a few minutes at a time.

He finds Vince and Greg, and, trailing after Granger and Weasley at a reasonable distance, he finds Potter.

"What?" Potter asks, face dark with fury and annoyance. Draco hasn't even had a chance to speak, and he's on edge.

"Manners, Potter," he says, trying to hide the sting, "or I'll have to give you detention." He means it as a joke, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows his tone is all wrong. He plows ahead, falling into predictable antagonism. "You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

"Yeah, but you, unlike me"—his sneer is a perfect imitation of Draco's voice—"are a git, so get out and leave us alone."

The Gryffindors gathered around him like men-at-arms laugh, and Draco's lips twist into a sneer. He taunts Potter, poking at the obvious distance between him and Weasley, and then he mentions the goddamned dog, and Granger is on her feet and shouting at him to, "Get out!"

He laughs because he doesn't know what else to do, glances at Potter because Draco needs to, though he doesn't understand why. The compartment door makes more noise than he expects when Granger slams it shut, and Draco flinches at the sound.

"You all right?" Greg asks, his thick brow furrowed.

"I'm fine. Let's go."

They trudge after Draco as he hurries down the carriage before ducking into the first open carriage. When Pansy finds them later, she curls up against Draco's side, his head leaning on the window as if the chill of glass against his skin will do something to temper the heat trapped there.

She doesn't say anything, just holds his hand in hers and squeezes it once, twice, before he spreads his fingers wide enough for hers to slide into the space created there.

* * *

He sneers, and he taunts. He sees weakness and capitalizes on it.

"Maybe the stupid great oaf's got himself badly injured."

"I mean, if it's a question of influence with the Ministry, I don't think they've got much chance."

"I've never seen a worse Keeper, but then he was _born in a bin_."

It's easier than finding the words for the feeling building in his chest when he sees Potter in the hallways or across classrooms. He jeers and spits vitriol about Potter and his friends because it's the only way he can keep the fire in his chest from immolating him.

And then his father is sent to Azkaban, and Draco can't do anything but burn.

"You're dead, Potter," he says as faded laughter taunts him from the distance. Potter's eyes are wide and green, and Draco wants to take him and destroy him, to ruin his placid expression and his raised eyebrows and his perfect insouciance.

"Funny, you'd think I'd have stopped walking around…"

Maybe, if they'd been friends, Draco would have laughed at that. But he's filled with hate and desire and grief—the last one catches him off-guard, the feeling of tears melding with his fear for his father until it's a tangled ball of agony in his chest—and all he can do is continue down this same, unveering path towards Potter's inevitable, too soon, death.

Snape and McGonagall stop them from killing each other, but Draco's hand aches for his wand the same way his heart aches for an answer to this question he can't bear to ask. When he godfather pulls him away, murmuring apologies to McGonagall while his fingers bite into Draco's arm, Draco starts shaking and isn't able to stop until much, much later, when Snape pours him a cup of tea laced with a Calming Draught and Draco can't feel much of anything at all.

* * *

He knows something is happening when his mother, her face red and eyes puffy, walks into his room, followed closely by Snape.

"Mother," Draco asks, setting his book aside and rising from his arm chair. "What's this about?"

"There's something"—her words are thick with unshed tears—"that Severus needs to speak to you about. I'll leave you alone."

The door shutting behind her is quiet, but the sound echoes in his room.

"Draco." Snape looks around the room, then gestures to the chair Draco's just vacated. "Sit, please."

Draco does as he's told, but he feels more than a hint of trepidation at Snape's expressionless face.

That trepidation becomes outright dread as his godfather starts to speak.

"The Dark Lord has an assignment, one that you will be receiving from him directly in the near future. I won't tell you now." Snape holds up a restraining hand when Draco starts to protest. "If he knows that I told you about this, even without the details, he will be quite displeased with the whole manner. And as you and I are both aware, we do not want to draw his displeasure. What is important, Draco, is that you understand that I am here to help you with this task at any time. You can trust me. I swear it."

Draco swallows and nods. "I understand."

"I don't think you do," Snape says with a strained smile.

When Draco is kneeling before the Dark Lord, his left arm burning and bleeding, he realises that Snape was right.

Draco doesn't understand anything anymore

* * *

His arm is still sore when he's trying on his robes. Malkin's assistant pricks him with a pin as she rolls his cuff back, and he jerks away.

"Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!"

He hurries to the mirror, tugging on the pinned sleeve even though his Mark is covered. His hands are shaking, and his skin feels like it's on fire, and then he sees the numbers emblazoned on his wrist. Looking into the mirror past his reflection, he sees Potter, Granger, and Weasley in the doorway.

He feels sick.

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in."

He hates the words as they fall from his tongue, but he has to keep up appearances, has to push these three away from him. He knows that Potter is going to die next year, and Draco can't be the cause of it. He can't be the broom or the potion or the fluid in Potter's lungs. If Potter is going to die, it can't be Draco's fault. They need to stay away.

Malkin upbraids him, and he sneers, and they draw wands. For a brief second, Draco wishes they would cast something, anything. He remembers falling unconscious on the Hogwarts Express and the brief respite it had been, and he hopes for it again.

But his mother stops them, her cold elegance like armor of glinting ice. Potter strikes where he knows it'll hurt, dragging Draco's father into the argument, and before Draco can do anything to defend his mother, she's setting the Boy Who Lived down yet again.

The pin in his arm has him cursing and shaking Malkin away.

"Watch where you're putting your pins," he yells again before mumbling something about not wanting the robes after all. He pulls them over his head, and for a second, he can't breathe, constricted and trapped by the black fabric as much as he is by the black on his arm. He needs to leave.

His mother's hand on his arm is cold and soothing, and as they walk into the open air of Diagon Alley, he gasps for breath.

"It's all right," she says as she quietly steers him to a side street. "It's all right."

She takes his hand and presses it to her chest, breathing slowly against his palm. "With me, darling. In and out. Yes, that's right. Just like that."

His mother helps him breathe through the panic, her voice as steady and quiet as his heartbeat isn't. She doesn't say anything about the tears in his eyes, just passes him her handkerchief once he's breathing easily again.

"Hold onto that for me, will you?" she says before looking into the crowded street. "I'll just head over to Twilfitt and Tatting's. Don't be too long."

"Of course." He tucks the tear-dampened kerchief into his pocket, squeezing it as if he could force the wetness from the fabric. When he pulls his hand from his pocket, the cuff of his sleeve shifts up, baring the numbers to the air.

"Fuck," he says quietly. His thumb hovers over the digits, but he hesitates. He's been running from this realization for years now, trying to stay ahead of disaster and utterly failing. Touch gentle and somewhat wondering, he drags his thumbnail around the numbers but doesn't vanish them. Instead, he repeats the date in his mind over and over until the recitation of it is in time with his breaths, and he finally feels like he can head back into the crowd.

He doesn't have time for this. His Mark burns, and his wrist burns, and as he shoves his way through the crowd to Borgin and Burkes, he shoves thoughts of Potter from his mind, wiping it as clear as the skin above his racing pulse.

* * *

Zabini barges into the carriage, then starts fucking around with the door. It slams back open, catching him off guard, and he tumbles into Greg's lap. They turn on each other like dogs, snapping and snarling, and Draco's somewhere between amused and annoyed when he catches a flash of white on the seat opposite him. He frowns, uncertain what he'd seen, and lays down across Pansy's lap. She goes back to running her fingers through his hair, and he settles into the gentle touch with a sigh.

He asks Zabini about Slughorn, then sits up after he lists the Gryffindors. Though Draco's mostly concerned about Potter, he asks about Longbottom instead.

"Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there."

Though he doesn't want to think about Potter, much less talk about him, Draco has to put on the show for the others in the compartment. When he lays across Pansy's lap again, he knows the numbers on his wrist are visible. He tucks his hand under his check, hiding his secret again.

"Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher." He breathes carefully, though he wants to gasp for breath. "I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?"

He doesn't know what makes him say it, but the thought fills him with a wild mix of dread and hope. He knows Potter's going to die, that he's going to do it during the school term, and Draco thinks, for one brief, shining moment, that he might be able to avoid it all, might be able to fuck off to Durmstrang or the Continent or, hell, even America, just somewhere that isn't Scotland and Potter's deathbed.

Pansy's hand stills, and she looks at him with too knowing eyes. "What do you mean?" she asks, and now there's no avoiding the other conversation that's been hiding in the compartment with them, the name they refuse to say even though they claim to follow him.

"Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something that you need to be qualified for," he says. Murder doesn't require any qualifications, just the will and six syllables. "I can see Hogwarts. We'd better get our robes on."

When Greg grabs his trunk from the luggage rack, Draco hears a gasp and his wrist flames. Thumb brushing over the numbers absent-mindedly, he pulls on his robes, locks his trunk, and fastens his traveling cloak around his neck. The whole time, his pulse beats against fire, and he lets the rest of the Slytherins leave before him.

"You go on," he tells Pansy, saying more without words than he ever can with them.

With no one else in the compartment with him, Draco listens. There's still the noise from the hallway, and even though the train isn't moving, it's still loud with steam and shifting mechanical gears. But Draco's always been a perceptive person, and he hears someone else breathing in counterpoint with him.

He closes the blinds, opens his trunk, takes his wand in his shaking hand.

" _Petrificus Totalus_ ," he says, ears ringing. The sound of a body hitting the floor is loud, and Draco knows who it is before Potter's cramped and contorted body comes into view.

He's filled with twisted joy. This is his soulmate sprawled before him, frozen and at his mercy. Draco can feel it building between them, that stupid thread of fate that binds them together through the numbers on their wrists. He wants Potter, though it makes him sick to admit it, and he wants to never see him again. 

"I thought so. I heard Goyle's trunk hit you." He smiles, though he knows it must make him look insane. "And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back… You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here…"

Potter's eyes are green and angry, and Draco hates him with a viciousness that startles even himself. He doesn't think about it, just lifts his foot and brings his heel down on Potter's face. Anything to make him stop looking at Draco, to stop him from coming to Hogwarts, to stop those three numbers from meaning so goddamned much.

"That's from my father," he says, though it's really from Draco. "Now, let's see…"

He throws the cloak over Potter, hiding his eyes and his bloody face. Draco can't bear to look at him anymore anyway, his mind already on the edge of panic and tears.

"I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London." He swallows and takes a step to the door. "See you around, Potter… or not."

When Draco leaves, he steps on Potter's hand by accident, and for a moment, he can make out the hint of numbers from under Potter's sleeve. He looks away and flees into the corridor, running like he always does.

* * *

He gives Katie Bell a necklace.

Severus tries to break into his mind.

He can't stop himself from yelling, "I don't need your protection!" even though he does. He needs Severus's protection and counsel and his patience. He needs none of this to be happening, for his parent's lives to be held in his inadequate hands. How is he supposed to do this? How can the Dark Lord expect Draco to kill Dumbledore when he can't even get the man a package?

As he storms out of Severus's office, his heart pounding and tears already choking his throat, his wrist burns, and he hates Potter and Voldemort and his father, and, most of all, himself.

* * *

The Vanishing Cabinet is as broken as it had been when Draco first started trying to repair it. He screams and throws things, sobs over its intricately carved door and empty interior. He curls at its base, head pressed against the floor, knees to his chin.

 _Second of May, 1998_ plays on repeat in his mind, and he desperately wants to know if his parents' wrists hold dates before or after the one on his does.

* * *

It should be pathetic, crying on the floor of a girl's bathroom with no one but a ghost to listen to him. But Myrtle's hands are cool against his overheated flesh, and though her voice is a bit nasally, she whispers soothing words to him while he sobs.

"No one can help me," he sobs, and she croons soothing words in his ear.

When he looks up into the mirror to wipe his face clean, he sees Potter in the doorway. His mouth is open, eyes wide, and Draco can't breathe. His wand is in his hand, and he's lashing out, trying to wipe the pity and shock from Potter's face, to replace it with the familiar hatred. He can handle that, but anything like the softness he'd seen…

" _Cruci_ —"

" _Sectumsempra_!"

At first, he doesn't feel pain. Just warmth as his blood pours down his chest. The room is greying around the edges, and there's a distant ringing in his ears. Someone's screaming, and when his back hits the floor, the water is ice cold until it isn't, warmed by his blood.

His hand falls open, his wand tumbling from limp fingers. His wrist is visible, and he doesn't know if the date's visible or not. Harry can't see it, though, he can't know.

Someone is singing to him, soft and low. He wants to sleep. It's like a lullaby. Arms wrap around his chest and lift him from the stained water.

"You need the hospital wing." Neck weak and unable to hold the weight of his head, he tries to look at the voice, one he recognises but can't process. Snape. Severus. "There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that… Come…"

Madame Pomfrey pours a light green potion over his chest, and it's not until it hits the raw wounds there that it starts to hurt. Screaming as the skin knits back together, he thinks that he deserves this, that Potter might have saved them all if he'd acted just a bit sooner, that Draco's chance at freedom, his chance to save his parents, is disappearing like blood down a drain, like thin white scars across his chest, like numbers that refuse to stay away.

* * *

" _Expelliarmus_!"

It's a simple spell, one of the first he'd ever learned. But when Draco yells it now and it sends the Headmaster's wand clattering to the stone floor of the Astronomy Tower, he wishes he couldn't cast it so well.

"Good evening, Draco," is how the worst conversation of his life begins.

"Why didn't you stop me, then?" he asks Dumbledore, though he wants to sob out the question, to demand an answer that will make sense. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be about to murder someone who's never done him any harm. But his parents… his _family_. His father may be cold, and his mother may be distant, but they love him, and he loves them, and oh Merlin, what has he gotten himself into?

"I haven't got any options! I've got to do it! He'll kill me!" He regrets not reading the date on Potter's wrist now. "He'll kill my whole family!"

"I can help you, Draco," is how it ends.

His wand drops.

* * *

There's very little memory of his flight from Hogwarts. Severus's hand on his wrist, fingers biting into bone. A flash of Potter's green eyes, his wand raised, Draco's rising out of instinct and habit. They leave Hogwarts, and Draco thinks he's never going to return. He's never going to be here again, never going to see Potter again, and the numbers on his wrist burn like unshed tears, like help offered and refused, like _Sectumsempra_ ripping his chest open.

* * *

Charity Burbage dies in his dining room. No, she is _murdered_ in his dining room, his parents quelled and terrified, Draco falling to the ground like her limp body. The snake devours her, starting at her head and working its awful way down her body. Its jaw shifts and unhinges, sharply angled teeth grabbing onto cloth and skin to pull the corpse into its wet, red maw. Draco shifts on the floor, scrabbling backwards until his back hits the paneled wall and there's nowhere else to go.

He wishes he'd looked at Potter's wrist. He wants to know when this will end.

* * *

He casts _Crucio_ successfully the next time he tries.

Rowle screams and screams, and Draco screams with him.

* * *

He knows it's Potter. Even without the burn on his wrist, he'd know him. His eyes are a particular shade of green, his skin a rich brown that shines with health and vigor. The hatred in his eyes shines, too, and Draco's comforted by how familiar it is, even while the rest of his life crumbles around him.

"I can't— I can't be sure."

But he is.

"I don't know."

But he does.

And when the chandelier falls to the ground, and the crystal cuts his face, and his hand is wet with blood and wrapped around the three wands, he lets go. Just a little, just enough, and Potter pulls away with Draco's wand in his fist, their fingers brushing and Draco's blood staining his palm.

* * *

He doesn't want to be back at Hogwarts. It's the day before Potter's going to die, and Draco knows it's going to happen here. There's nowhere else for it. He hasn't been able to eat, and though he shrugs it off as something, anything, other than fear, he knows with a growing sickness that when Potter dies, Draco will _know_ , whether he sees it happen or not.

He certainly doesn't want to be back in the Room of Hidden Things. It had sensed that when Greg and Vince had dragged him there, the door refusing to appear for long minutes while the two hulking boys, nearly men, glared at him with all of the animosity they had never dared express during their school years.

When the door had finally arrived—covered with heavy bars of wrought iron and so many locks, Draco didn't think they were ever going to get inside—he'd nearly been sick in the hallway.

The Room is the least organized Draco's ever seen it. Piles and stacks of junk tower over Vince, Greg, and him, all of them threatening to collapse at the faintest brush of their robes against their bases. Draco's nearly afraid to breathe in here with how precarious it all feels, but Greg and Vince charge on without a care, wands out and eyes darting in and out of the maze the Room's made of itself.

"He's in here somewhere," Greg says. "The Dark Lord said he would be."

Draco doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to see Potter from between the bulk of Vince and Greg's shoulders before him, Potter's long arms reaching for the top of an old discoloured cupboard. Draco's wrist heats, and he presses his thumb against the skin before the numbers can even finish appearing.

"Hold it, Potter." His voice feels like sandpaper in his throat. Potter turns around, his eyes wary and his hand held at his side, with Draco's wand wrapped in his fingers. Draco raises his mother's wand, though he isn't sure why. "That's my wand you're holding, Potter."

"Not anymore. Winners, keepers, Malfoy." Potter smirks. "Who's lent you theirs?"

"My mother."

When Harry laughs, it lashes against Draco like the salt spray of sea air. He tries to stop the thought before it bubbles up, but he can't help but wonder if this will be the last time Potter will ever laugh.

"So how come you three aren't with Voldemort?"

Draco flinches at the name, and he's thankful that he's behind Vince and Greg where they can't see his fear. Vince and Potter exchange words, Draco's ears drowning out the words until Potter turns his eyes back to Draco.

"So how did you get in here?"

"I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year. I know how to get in."

He watches Potter try to process that statement while Greg talks, his thick voice and gloating. A moment later, Weasley's voice echoes through the room, and they all startle. Vince, in his infinite wisdom, casts a furious _Descendo_ , and the precarious towers start to fall in huge cascading torrents of junk.

Potter casts something, and Draco lunges for Vince's arm, snarling, "No!" His fingers bite into the thick flesh of Vince's forearm, and Draco knows his old friend has only stopped because of long habit, not because Draco has the ability to stop him anymore. "If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!"

Vince shakes his arm free. "What's that matter?" he asks. "It's Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?"

"Potter came here to get it, so that must mean—"

But Vince won't hear any more of it. "I don't take your orders no more, _Draco_ ," and it stings and makes Draco wish he'd learned how to make real friends, friends like Potter has, who would follow him into danger without even thinking about questioning it.

Friends who will mourn his passing, coming too soon.

Vince casts _Crucio_ , and Draco yells at him to stop. Chaos erupts around them when a Stunning spell whips by Vince's head, and he turns, snarling like a rabid dog slipped from its leash, to throw the Killing Curse back at Granger. Draco's wand goes flying a moment later, and he stands in the middle of a battle, hands empty and useless, all of it so useless. Crabbe and Goyle's wands are pointed at Harry, and all Draco can think is that it can't already be the Second, that it can't be time, he's not ready. He needs more time.

"Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!"

He doesn't have time to say anything else, diving to the side to avoid another Stunning spell from Granger's wand. There's yelling and the flash of spell casting, and Draco wants to lie down and let himself be crushed by it all, if only to escape what's coming.

His wrist heats, but when he looks to wipe the numbers away, he finds there's actual fire licking at his skin. Draco knows this spell, and body chilled through as the Fiendfyre, he frantically reaches out for someone, anyone. His hand catches in Greg's robes, and he pulls at his limp and Stunned body. Fear drives him, and a desperate, primal desire to live. The room is alive with creatures made of flame. Dragons and serpents that taunt Draco with their crackling breath. They bite at his shoes and clothes, tear at Greg's clothing as it drags on the ground as Draco desperately pulls his body away from the flames.

He doesn't know how he manages to get the bulk of Greg's body onto the tower of desks. It's all pointless, anyway. There's no stopping Fiendfyre, not unless the original caster can bring it back under control. Draco has no idea where Vince has gone to, but he doesn't have much hope that his old friend will be able to do anything anymore.

He tilts his head back, sweat and tears pouring down his face, and Draco prepares himself to die. He shouldn't feel as peaceful about it as he does. Some of that must be shock, he thinks. His skin is blistered where it peeks out from under his robes, and it screams at him to get away, to run. But a good part of it is resignation. He's been desperate for relief, for release, and though it will hurt, this death, it will let him finally rest.

But when he opens his eyes, he sees Harry. Harry, diving towards Draco and Greg, his arm outstretched, face covered in soot and sweat, teeth bared, and when Draco looks at Potter's wrist, the date there isn't today's.

Their fingers slip at first, but then Draco's climbing onto Harry's broom, squeezed against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, forehead pressed into the nape of his neck.

"The door!" He can't see it through the smoke, but he's spent so many hours in this room, he knows where it is anyway. "Get to the door, the door!"

But Potter doesn't listen—does he ever?—and dives again into the flames, the twisted and glowing-hot diadem around his wrist like an oversized bracelet.

They move so quickly through the smoke that it parts behind them, a brief open glance into the burning maw of the room. Draco regrets its destruction, but he knows that the flames will eat the Vanishing Cabinet and he can't regret that. He's screaming, though, because he doesn't know what else to do.

The crash into the hallway wall cuts the sound off, and he falls from the broom onto his side, coughing and gagging and loudly throwing up what little he'd managed to eat that day. It's stained with soot and ash, and he staggers away from it, mouth tainted by the taste.

That's when it all hits him.

"C-Crabbe. C-Crabbe."

Weasley turns on him, his hair singed and stained. "He's dead."

The Trio start talking among themselves, the diadem around Potter's wrist like an oversized bangle. Draco takes a step back, then another, and then he runs, leaving Greg unconscious on the floor and his soulmate, still unaware that his life is nearly over.

It is finally the Second of May.

* * *

He sees the Trio once more before the end. Draco's without a wand, and he's desperately trying to keep these two men he doesn't know from finishing the job the Fiendfyre hadn't managed to do early. Red light flashes past him, and when Draco turns around, eyes wide, all he sees is a fist rocketing out of nothing to smash into his face.

All he can do is laugh with the taste of blood filling his mouth.

* * *

Draco finally makes his way out of the castle, joins everyone else on the great lawns before it. Everyone's so covered in blood and dust that he can't recognize anyone, and he hopes that no one recognizes him, either.

The grounds boom with the rasping, hissing voice of the Dark Lord.

"Harry Potter is dead."

Draco doesn't hear the rest. His wrist is aflame, and as he looks down at the numbers he's hidden his entire life, they bleed out of his skin, the normally black letters turning a dull, dark brown like dried blood. When Draco swipes at them, they don't go away, instead smearing beneath his thumb. All that's left of his connection to Potter is a dark stain on his wrist, one that's already blending into the rest of the dirt and grime covering his skin.

He can't cry. He doesn't deserve these tears. He and Potter… They never knew each other, not really. Draco never had him except as an enemy. The voices rising around him, wailing in grief and anger, throats ripped apart with shouts of _Harry_ and _No_ , those are the ones who deserve to mourn the Boy Who Lived No More, but not Draco. If he'd known…

Longbottom's screams rend the air as Voldemort curses him, and the forest erupts with giants and centaurs. Draco stands rooted in the spot, watching as Death Eaters flee around him, their black robes singed and smoking. Arrows rain down around him, and by some chance, they don't hit him. He knows he won't die today, but he can still be hurt. He wonders if an arrow into his flesh would feel like less of a wound than numbers smeared on his skin.

"HARRY—WHERE'S HARRY?"

Draco runs after everyone else, the crowd flooding the great hall as they chase the Death Eaters and Voldemort into the stronghold. Draco's buffeted about like a ship lost at sea, caught in a tide of humanity and magical creatures, unable or unwilling to fight against the pull of them. He's too tired to fight, still wandless, so he lets himself be pulled along with everyone else, the world a dim and distant grey thing that he can't bear to focus on.

His aunt is killed, and all Draco can feel is numb relief. This is it. This is the end. It's only a short amount of time before Voldemort's forces will rally, and the War will end, and he'll be a Death Eater forever and ever, even though he wishes he were anything but.

Draco turns his dull eyes towards the Dark Lord, and that's when he sees it. A flash of white, so like the one he'd seen last year on the Hogwarts Express. But it can't be. He's dead. Draco's wrist is…

"It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

He's alive.

* * *

Draco had been the Master of the Elder Wand. He'd no idea. There hadn't been any change in him, no sense of increased magic or control or anything. He'd taken Dumbledore's wand without thought, and for months, Draco could've done… 

It doesn't bear thinking about too much now.

That ownership had transferred to Potter at Malfoy Manor, and now, it's lead to Voldemort's death. Of bloody course Potter can't cast a sensible spell, instead trying to _disarm_ the greatest Dark Wizard the world had ever seen, but it works, so Draco can't harp on the point too much, not even to himself.

When Draco finally gets a chance to clean himself off again, the water runs black and brown for a long time. He's afraid to look at his right wrist, uncertain what will be there now. He doesn't know what he'll do if he sees another date, and he doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't. So he keeps his wrist turned to the floor and his eyes lifted to the wall or the ceiling, and he does his best to wash the grime from his body without looking at anything much at all.

Then, he sleeps for what feels like days. His mother leaves food and water at his door, and Draco dutifully eats and drinks it before falling back into his rumpled sheets. It's a week and a half after the defeat of the Dark Lord that Draco finally drags himself out of his room. He puts on an old pair of joggers and a Puddlemere United jersey that's fraying at the hem. Barefooted, he walks from his room to the front parlour where his mother is most likely to be at noon on a Tuesday.

The door creaks when he pushes it open. "Mother," he calls, looking back at the hinges, "I'll talk to the house-elves about getting that taken care of. Have you had lunch yet?"

"Draco."

He startles at the strain in her voice. It's been strained for days, but this time, there's a hint of hysteria in it. When he turns to face her finally, he understands why.

Potter is sitting on the couch. He's wearing a set of dress robes that must be new. They're a deep green that makes his eyes look like sunlight through the Great Lake, and this time, they're cut to compliment his frame. 

And Draco's barefoot and in his rattiest clothes.

"Shit."

"Draco!"

"Sorry, Mother." He gives a half-bow towards Potter. "My apologies to our guest."

"Malfoy." Potter stands. "Draco."

Draco holds his hands clasped behind his back, then slowly inches his left up so it covers his right wrist. It's burning.

"I'll leave you two alone," his mother says quietly before leaving the room, the door creaking shut behind her.

"Potter." Draco doesn't move. "I believe thank yous are in order, for a multitude of reasons."

"You shouldn't…" Potter runs his hand through his hair, and Draco catches a glimpse of numbers on his wrist. "Don't thank me for doing what I was meant to do."

"Then for the Fiendfyre. I didn't say thank you then."

Potter shrugs. "You're welcome. But…" He shifts awkwardly again, and Draco wishes he knew how to make Potter not feel uncomfortable. "I didn't know."

"That Vince"—the name is a broken syllable falling from his mouth—"would light the whole world on fire?"

"No. About." Potter touches his wrist, looking away from Draco. "What did it say?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Malfoy." Potter shakes his head, face twisted in anger. " _Draco_. What date was on your wrist?"

Draco's fingers clench. "I don't think you'd ask me that question if you didn't already know the answer."

"So. It's true, then. I was right." Potter lets out a slow breath and sits on the couch.

"How'd you figure it out?"

"In the Room… I couldn't… Something pulled me back."

"Ah. And here I thought it was your inherent goodness."

"No such luck."

The room falls quiet between them, Draco still clenching his wrist like he might break it, and Potter shifting on the couch uncomfortably.

"And now?" he asks, looking at Draco from through the fall of his lashes, his green eyes bright and focused. "What's it say now?"

"I haven't looked."

Potter rises from the couch, then slowly walks forward to stand in front of Draco. And though his arms are still held behind his back, Potter reaches for them anyway, pulling lightly on the right one until Draco's left hand is forced to let go. His arm is bare, and Potter's touch is hot and aching as it trails up the sensitive skin of Draco's inner elbow and forearm. Wrist turned up, pulse beating wildly.

Potter runs his thumb across the ridges of Draco's tendons, then looks down at the expanse of skin.

Draco just looks at Potter.

"Well, that's interesting." He smiles, and it feels like an assault. "They're the same."

"What?" Draco looks down, then stares as Potter flips his right wrist up, holding it side-to-side with Draco's. The dates are identical.

"Guess I'm stuck with you for awhile, then," Potter says before turning his hand to take Draco's. "Maybe we should learn to get along, hm?"

"Maybe." Draco swallows. "If you'd want."

"You're my soulmate." Potter says it like it's easy. "I figure it must be worth it, in the end."

"So, what's next?"

Potter shrugs. "I think we can figure that out for ourselves."

When Draco vanishes the date this time, it doesn't burn. Instead, it feels like warmth against his skin, like a breath exhaled, like body-warmed sheets tangled about his legs in summer. It feels like Potter's fingers tangled with Draco's, like something settled and easy, a sensation he'd nearly forgotten.

It feels like a tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> "No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away." - Terry Pratchett
> 
> * * *
> 
> And then they fall in love and get married and live a very long, happy life together. Big thanks to Noella ([VeelaWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeelaWings/pseuds/VeelaWings)) for beta reading. I love you, darling!
> 
> All of the dialogue before the end scene is from canon, so if you think it sounds authentic, that's because it is 😅
> 
> This was such a treat to write. Thank you, lostandmessedup, for the phenomenal prompt!


End file.
